Unexpected debt
— CHAPTER SIXTEEN —
Unexpected debt
Tom Riddle was no fool. He was pragmatic. And while part of him urged him to let Potter die, another part was vehemently against it — and the strength of that internal opposition surprised even Riddle himself. Tom had long ago learned to listen to the whispers of his intuition; one of the Albanian mages he had met on his journey had told him that intuition was nothing more than a manifestation of genius, mental processes too rapid for even his brilliant brain to comprehend. Tom had liked this explanation very much and had trusted his intuition even more since then.
And now his intuition was screaming at him not to let Potter die.
So Riddle decided not to let him die.
a flick of his wand. The air around the boy shimmered, a riot of colour swirling around him. Malevolent dark tendrils radiated from Potter's left hand, intertwining to form a sinister web that seemed to pulse and spread with ominous intent. Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, Tom held the spell, the wrinkle on his forehead depending as fresh shadowy lines appeared, confirming his worst suspicions.
This wasn't a simple curse, one that would take only seconds to remove. Tom narrowed his eyes, trying to identify the curse, but to his growing frustration, the only thing he could say about it was that it was exceptionally nasty. Another diagnostic spell revealed that it was sucking the life force out of Potter far too quickly.
He took a measured step back, his keen gaze sweeping across the cluttered back room. The sheer number of potentially lethal objects surrounding them was overwhelming. They had recently purchased too many artifacts, and Riddle hadn't had enough time to familiarize himself with all of them, so he wasn't quite sure what kind of curses were actually on them. And, of course, the teen couldn't have had the decency to collapse next to whatever he'd touched — that would have been far too simple, far too helpful. Trust Potter to be cursed, and you could also be certain it would be something particularly nasty.
Anger flared anew in Tom, threatening to shatter his usual cool demeanour. How could Potter have been so careless? So foolish? He had clearly warned the boy of the dangers lurking in the shop. Did the moron think Tom was saying all that to scare him? And now, because of the idiot's recklessness, Tom was forced to waste his valuable time and energy cleaning up this mess.
Taking a deep, calming breath, Tom pushed his fury aside. He needed to focus. The curse was complex, and without knowing which item had triggered it, removing it completely would be challenging. Time was of the essence; every second the curse remained active it wreaked further havoc on Potter's body. The situation wasn't helped by the fact that Tom didn't know exactly what the devastation was; all he knew was that Potter was in mortal danger.
Riddle's mind raced through possible solutions, weighing each with clinical detachment. Taking Potter to St Mung's was not an option — too many questions would be asked, too many eyes watching. The back room of Borgin and Burke's was hardly an ideal location for complex curse-breaking, but moving Potter posed its own risks. Mainly for Potter, so Tom could try.
But there was another problem. Without knowing exactly what had hit Potter, the solutions at Tom's disposal required the assistance of at least one other person — someone not only skilled in healing, but also familiar with dark magic.
The thought of having to turn to someone else for help hurt Riddle's pride, but pragmatism won out. Besides, he was going to take on the burden of casting the spell anyway. The other wizard would only assist and support Tom with his magic.
And intervene if something went wrong, although the chances of that were extremely small.
Once the decision had been made, Riddle cast diagnostic spell on Potter again to see how much time he had. To his growing annoyance, it turned out to be far less than he had thought; the curse was working faster than he had suspected.
Time was now his main opponent. The corners of Tom's mouth twitched in a slight smile, relishing the challenge. This was something he could handle. What he was about to do was risky, as risky as breaking the curse itself, but Riddle was not one to be deterred by potential consequences. At worst, the boy would die — though it would be preferable if he survived, if only so that Tom could properly punish him for this idiotic stunt.
With an intricate series of wand movements, Riddle began to weave a spell that would envelop Potter in a cocoon where time would flow much more slowly than in the outside world. It was a dangerous move, for a moment's inattention could result in the boy's instant death. The air shimmered and distorted as if the boy were lying behind rippling water. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Potter's convulsions began to subside.
Tom concentrated, putting all his willpower into forming a protective cocoon. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed as if the curse might break through. But then, with a final burst of magical energy, the cocoon took hold.
Potter lay motionless on the floor, suspended in a bubble of frozen time.
Another diagnostic spell revealed that the intended effect had been achieved; the curse had slowed its destructive spread.
Tom breathed slowly, feeling the effects of the complex magic he had just performed. He had bought them some time, but the stasis field wouldn't last forever. It was time to call for help — not help, he corrected himself mentally, but assistance — as much as he wanted to avoid it.
"Bug!" Tom called sharply, his voice laced with irritation.
With a soft pop, the house-elf appeared, his large eyes widening at the scene before him.
"Master calls for Bug?" the elf squeaked.
"Listen carefully," Tom began harshly. "Go to St Mungo's, find Brandon Avery and tell him I urgently require his presence at my flat. Do not mention Potter or what you've seen here. Simply say it's a matter of life and death. Is that clear?"
Bug nodded vigorously, his ears flapping. "Yes, Master. Bug understands. Bug will fetch Healer Avery right away!"
With another crack, the elf disappeared, leaving Tom alone with the frozen form of Harry Potter. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the boy. Even unconscious and on the brink of death, Potter was causing him no end of trouble.
In moments like this Riddle wondered if knowledge of the future was really worth it.
o.O.o
As the flames flickered green, Brandon Avery hurried out, hastily shaking the ash off his pristine white healer's robe.
"Tom, what's wrong? Your house-elf appeared completely out of the blue and—" Brandon broke off abruptly, his eyes widening in surprise as he looked around the room. While waiting for his arrival, Riddle had had time to prepare his living room. Furniture was pushed against the walls, the thick carpet was rolled up and leaned against a corner, leaving an empty space in the middle of the room, in the centre of which lay the motionless body of Harry Potter. The teenager was still wrapped in a cocoon that slowed the passage of time, but even so, his back was arched and his mouth was open wide, as if he was about to scream, but the sound had not yet escaped his throat. "Isn't that your brother? What happened to him?"
Tom's lips thinned, suppressing a flicker of annoyance at the barrage of questions. "He touched something he shouldn't have," he replied curtly. "I've managed to slow the spread of the curse, but that doesn't solve the main problem; removing the curse itself.”
Brandon's healer's instinct kicked in. He nodded absentmindedly at Riddle's explanation and knelt beside Potter's inert body. With each successive diagnostic spell, the concentration on his face deepened. Riddle saw little point in this examination, but he didn't stop him. After a brief moment of contemplation, Brandon glanced over his shoulder at Tom, his bushy eyebrows furrowed.
"Tom, it doesn't look good," he said, his tone serious. "This curse... I can't identify it, but it looks like it's draining both magic and life."
"It also works in such a way that it absorbs any magic directed at it," Riddle added in a calm tone. He had discovered this when he enveloped Potter in that time-slowing cocoon. "And it’s strengthened by it."
Avery's eyes widened up. "Merlin's crap! What are you guys selling in that shop?!"
Riddle shrugged his shoulders, at the same time handing Avery the book he had been flicking through only moments before. "I warned him not to touch anything. Maybe this will finally get through to him."
"If we save him," Brandon muttered grimly as he rose to his feet. He took the offered book.
"We will save him. I even have an idea how," Tom replied curtly, feeling his excitement grow involuntarily at the thought of the magic he was about to perform. Until now, he had only read about this spell. "The description begins at the bottom of the page. I'll need your assistance with this. It's our best chance at breaking the curse."
Brandon's eyes scanned the description, his face visibly paling as he absorbed the intricacies of the spell. "Tom, this is... incredibly advanced magic. I've heard of this kind of curse-breaking, but I've never tried anything like it. Are you sure this—"
"I'll be casting the spell," Tom cut him off, his voice sharp. "All I need you to do is act as a stabiliser and support me with your magic when necessary. Can you do that, or should I find someone else?"
Brandon straightened. A flash of indignation at the suggestion that he would be unsuitable for the task crossed his features.
"I just want to make sure that you are aware of the risks involved. If something goes wrong, your brother will die.”
"If we do nothing, he will die too."
"I could ask my father."
"No. I don't want this to spread." Brandon opened his mouth, probably to reassure Tom that his father, known for his discretion, wouldn't tell anyone. But that wasn't the crux of the matter. If Brandon's father were to treat Potter, he might discover something — something that might lead him to suspect that Potter wasn't really Tom's brother or, more dangerously, that he was from the future. It was a risk Riddle couldn't afford to take. "Besides, I'm confident in our abilities. We can do this ourselves," he lied smoothly.
And if we don't, well... Potter's death would be inconvenient, but hardly a tragedy, Riddle added mentally. At least it would save his future self the trouble of dealing with the boy.
Brandon struggled with his thoughts for a moment, biting his lip, clutching the book tighter and glancing once more at the spell described in it, but Riddle knew what his answer would be. Avery was, after all, one of his Slytherins, and they all shared a desire to push themselves to the limits, far beyond what was normally considered safe.
"I'm in. Just tell me what to do," Avery said finally, his determination clear.
Riddle suppressed a smile. "We'll start by making runic circles." With a wave of his hand, Tom summoned crayons that would be used to draw the circles on the floorboards. He handed one to Brandon. "Let's get started. Follow my lead strictly."
With practiced precision, Tom began to draw intricate runes around Potter's still form. His movements were fluid and confident, each stroke of the wax crayon leaving a clear white mark. Brandon mirrored Tom's actions on the opposite side, and with each symbol his focus increased. Though not as proficient as Tom, it was clear that he also was no novice in the art of runic magic. His hand moved with growing confidence as they worked in tandem, following Riddle's lead without hesitation.
As their circles grew and intertwined, the air itself seemed to thicken with magical energy. It crackled and pulsed, growing denser and more palpable with each completed symbol. Tom's grey eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he felt the magic building, layer upon intricate layer.
Suddenly, Riddle stopped and with a deft flick of his wrist summoned a small, silver dagger. Avery, concentrating on duplicating Tom's every move, froze with his crayon an inch above the floor, a flicker of alarm crossing his features. Riddle, doing nothing about Avery's apparent confusion, pressed the blade to the inside of his left hand and cut gently. Blood spurted out. Brandon's eyes widened, but he remained silent, watching intently as Tom used his own blood to inscribe the next rune, binding his magic even more tightly to the runic circle.
The effect was immediate. The air seemed to thicken even more, and the freshly drawn bloody rune flashed with an eerie crimson glow. Tom passed the knife to Brandon, his gaze brooking no argument.
Understanding dawned in Brandon's eyes. He simply asked, "The same?" and when Tom inclined his head, Avery followed suit, cutting his own palm and adding his blood to another rune on his side of the circle. The surge of power that followed was almost overwhelming, causing both wizards to draw in sharp breaths. The glow of the illuminated runes lit up their faces.
They continued this way, alternating between the waxy crayons and their own blood, each crimson rune amplifying the circle's power exponentially. By the time they neared completion, the magic in the air crackled. It was so dense it was almost suffocating, pressing down on them with an almost physical weight.
"Enough," Tom said at one point and his lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he surveyed their handiwork. Their two intertwined runic circles were a display of skill that no runic master would be ashamed of, each symbol perfectly placed and humming with power. He could feel the magic flowing through him, through Avery, lurching towards Potter's numb form, powerful magic that he held in check, eager at his command.
"The circles’ magic should absorb the curse but be prepared. If it starts to slip, use your blood to support the circles," Tom instructed Avery, taking up a position beside Potter's head. He knelt down and cradled the boy's head, his hands squeezing it tightly. A jolt of malevolent energy surged through Tom's body, but the protective magic of the runes worked. "Hold his legs tightly," he ordered Brandon.
Avery nodded and knelt on the other side, pinning Potter's legs to the floor with all the strength of his muscular arms.
The two wizards looked into each other's eyes. There was a mixture of fear and determination in the brown eyes, but Tom was sure that Avery wouldn't let him down. Avery gave a brief nod, signalling his readiness. Tom's gaze flickered briefly to the book of spells lying open on the floor. Taking a deep breath, Riddle started to chant, his voice resonating with power as he began the arduous and exhausting process of pushing the curse out of Potter's body.
As the spell built up, and Tom felt the curse fighting back with savage intensity. It writhed like a living thing, slippery and vicious, constantly seeking new ways to evade his magic. Sweat trickled down his brow as he poured more and more of his power into the spell through the guttural words that came from his throat. Brandon's presence faded into the background, becoming little more than a conduit for additional magical energy. Tom's world narrowed to the intricate dance of power between himself, the curse, and Potter's fading life force. Never before in his short but intense life had Riddle had to face such a vicious force. He knew the curse was violent, evil, but it wasn't until he tried to push it away that he realised just how much.
But Tom Riddle was no ordinary wizard. He was powerful, cunning and cruel. What had begun as a reluctant rescue had become personal, no longer just about saving Potter. Now it was about proving himself, showing his superiority over the strange magic itself.
The minutes stretched on like hours. Tom's body began to tremble from the effort of maintaining the spell, his throat worn out from the endless stream of incantations. Just when he thought they were making progress, the curse struck back with renewed force and intensity.
Potter's body rose abruptly from the floor, a desperate cry escaping his lips. The runes flickered dangerously, dimmed for a moment, as if burned out. Brandon's grip on Potter's legs tightened, his knuckles white with the effort of keeping the boy still. Concentrating on fuelling the circle with his own power, Avery didn't even notice blood dripping from his nose.
The runes shone again, but their glow was faint, muted.
"No," Tom growled through clenched teeth. He would not be defeated, not when he had come this far. With almost inhuman effort, he reached deeper into not only his magic, but Avery's as well, drawing on reserves he didn't even know existed.
The surge of power that followed was like a tsunami, untamed and unrestrained. It coursed through Tom like lightning, setting every nerve ablaze. Riddle had no idea how he had managed to channel it into Potter's inert body. But he had. The room itself seemed to warp and bend under the onslaught of pure, unfiltered magic. Everything blended into one — Potter's scream, the rattling of furniture, the distant sound of breaking glass, the guttural roar coming from Tom's throat.
Suddenly, the magic and the curse inside Potter stretched taut like an overstretched rubber band and, with a deafening snap, released all at once. Tom would have been swept backwards had it not been for the bloody runes that anchored him. The curse erupted from the boy's body, a writhing mass of dark energy caught and destroyed by the meticulously crafted runic circle. Simultaneously, Riddle felt a strange link forming between him and Potter, a thread binding them together. The sensation was so fleeting, so ephemeral, that it vanished before he could fully comprehend it. The air crackled with residual magic as silence fell, leaving only a faint, smoky residue that smelled of burned hair and something darker, more primal.
As the magical surge subsided, both wizards found themselves utterly drained. Brandon slumped forward, his arms shaking. His robes were soaked through, as if he had been doused with water, and blood trickled from his nose, mixing with sweat and dripping onto the floor. He gasped for air, his chest heaving with every breath.
Tom fared no better. He fell back onto his heels, his limbs as heavy as lead. His lungs burned as he gulped down air, desperate for oxygen. Sweat plastered his usually immaculate hair to his forehead. When he tried to wipe it away, he noticed a smear of blood on his sleeve. His own nose had started bleeding.
Instinctively, Tom reached for his wand to clean himself up. But his fingers refused to cooperate. They felt numb and clumsy, unable to grip the smooth wood. The simple act of grasping his wand now seemed beyond his capabilities.
For a while, they both just panted, slowly coming to their senses, as the realization of what they had just achieved together began to sink in.
It was Avery who first managed to straighten up and meet Riddle's gaze. "Tom... we... you did it. I felt it," he gasped between breaths. "The debt. It formed. You really saved his life."
So that's what that strange feeling of connection was. A life debt.
Tom tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
"Yes, I saved him," he repeated. His mortal enemy. And now Potter owed him.
As the absurdity of the situation sank in, he laughed. Loudly, maniacally.
o.O.o
The first thing Harry became aware of was pain. It radiated through every fibre of his being, a dull, persistent ache that seemed to have no beginning and no end. He tried to open his eyes, but even the slightest movement sent shockwaves of agony through his skull. A moan escaped his parched lips, a sound barely audible even to his own ears.
A grim thought flashed through his mind: he had regained consciousness in this state far too often lately — sore and drained of energy. The difference this time was that he couldn't remember what had brought him to this state. His mind felt foggy, memories just out of reach. He tried to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate, every muscle crying out in protest. A wave of nausea washed over him and he fell back against the pillows, breathing heavily.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, Potter," a cold, disturbingly familiar voice came from the side. "I was beginning to think it would never happen."
Riddle. Harry didn't even bother to open his eyes. He wanted to talk back, to reply with something witty, but his throat was dry as a bone.
"If it weren't for the fact that you're still more usefully conscious than not, I'd be more inclined to practise taking your consciousness away, since that means no rude responses," Riddle said, and Harry could almost see the infuriatingly arrogant smile on his lips. Almost, because he still refused to open his eyes.
Harry forced himself into a sitting position; the vulnerability of lying down in Riddle's presence was too much for him to bear. Even in his current state. When he finally managed to do so, he felt something cold touch his lips and Riddle's command reached him: "Drink this."
Harry finally lifted his eyelids and although the world was a blur of indistinct shapes, he realised that he was in his room — not his room, he mentally corrected himself, the room he occupied in Riddle's flat would never become his room. A glass containing a greenish liquid that looked nothing like water was floating in front of him. Harry hesitated.
"Drink," Riddle repeated, irritation seeping into his voice. "Believe me, if I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn't have tried to poison you just after nearly driving myself to magical exhaustion saving your life."
Harry, still reeling from what he'd just heard, mindlessly reached for the glass and downed its contents in one gulp. Riddle did what?!
He grimaced and put the glass down on the bedside table. Whatever Riddle had made him drink, it tasted awful. But it worked immediately; Harry could feel his strength and energy slowly returning and the pain in his muscles lessen.
"What... what happened?" Harry forced himself to ask, avoiding Riddle's gaze. The future Dark Lord sat in the armchair opposite his bed, a book flying off with a swish into the library, clearly having been read earlier.
"You tell me. For four days, I've been wondering what made you rifle through things you shouldn't even be touching," Riddle said icily. His tone, previously stern, was now as frosty as an Antarctic wind.
Harry felt the knot in his stomach tighten with fear. The memories slowly returned, with a certain black journal playing a central role — a journal that Riddle could not have known existed. "I was unconscious for four days?" Harry asked, deciding to play for time. He reached for the bedside table and found his glasses. He put them on and immediately regretted it, preferring not to see how Riddle narrowed his eyes.
"Yes, Potter. Four days. Four days of wasted time and energy because you couldn't follow one simple rule." He leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, and his voice lowered to a dangerous whisper. "Now I'm going to ask you again and think twice before you lie. What did you really do?"
Harry's mind raced, searching for a plausible lie, despite Riddle's warning. He couldn't reveal the truth, the stakes were too high. He had to find out what the Horcruxes were. "I... I was just curious," he stammered, hating how weak his voice sounded. "There were so many strange objects, and I—"
The curse struck without warning, no incantation uttered, no time to react. Harry bent in half. A few seconds and it was over.
"Fuck, Riddle," he spat through clenched teeth. Was it Crucio? Or something else?
"I warned you, no lies. My patience with you ran out four days ago," Riddle said, his voice devoid of remorse as he slowly rose from his chair. With predatory grace, he walked over to Harry's bed and sat down on the edge. He grabbed Harry's chin with a firm grip and despite Harry's attempts to wriggle free, he couldn't escape. Riddle forcibly turned his head, locking eyes with him. "If you lie to me again, I'll Legilimize you," he threatened.
Harry's heartbeat faster. He tried to look away, but Riddle held him. Grey eyes stared into his with disturbing intensity, but he remained stubbornly silent, despite the terror growing within him.
"What were you doing before you activated the curse?"
Silence. Jaw clenched. Jerk.
Nails dug deeper into his chin.
"I won't ask again, Potter," Riddle's voice was low, dangerous.
Harry felt a foreign presence probing at the edges of his mind. He knew Riddle was doing it deliberately, to intimidate him — and it was working. Fighting the growing panic, Harry snapped, "You promised you wouldn't do this."
He hated how the sense of betrayal and fear in his voice was all too evident.
Riddle's nails bit deeper into his flesh.
"Provided you're honest with me. Now you're not."
Harry swallowed hard, his mind racing. He knew he could not lie. But he wasn't going to tell the whole truth either. Unfortunately, he needed to say something, anything to get Riddle off his back without revealing too much. "I was... looking for information," he said finally, reluctantly.
The alien presence still lingered at the edges of his consciousness, but no longer pushed to invade.
"Information about what?"
"About..." Harry hesitated. About time travel, he wanted to say, but something in Riddle’s gaze compelled him to whisper, "About Horcruxes."
Riddle went utterly still. And this was more alarming than any other reaction.
"About Horcruxes?" repeated the future Dark Lord calmly, too calmly. The shivers ran through Harry's spine. At that moment, all he could manage was an almost imperceptible nod. "And why, pray tell, were you looking for information about Horcruxes?" The question was asked again in that terrifyingly deceptively smooth tone.
Harry tried to turn his head away, but Riddle's grip on his chin was unyielding. He didn't want to give anything away, not that easily, but the curse and the four days of unconsciousness had weakened him like nothing else in his life.
"I... I wanted to know more about them. To... to understand them better," he said, closing his eyes.
The sharp sting of a nail digging into the soft skin of his chin forced his eyes open again.
"And did you succeed?"
"No," Harry admitted reluctantly. He had no intention of revealing any more, but a foreign presence pressed against his mind, a clear threat. Either he would divulge everything, or Riddle would tear it from his thoughts. And Harry wasn't prepared to endure another brutal invasion of his memories.
"Some time ago, I found a journal in the back room, and while looking through it, I came across a reference to Horcruxes," he confessed reluctantly. Riddle remained silent, clearly expecting him to continue. Harry sighed in resignation. "It was in French, so I didn't learn much anyway."
Pale fingers finally released his chin. Riddle straightened, widening the gap between them.
"And what does this have to do with the curse that almost killed you?" he asked.
Harry shrugged and leaned back against the headrest. His chin still ached.
"I hid it under a bookshelf so you wouldn't find it, and when I tried to move the boxes to get to it, I lost my balance and accidentally touched something."
He felt a wave of despair wash over him. It was his only clue, his only lead to understanding what the Horcruxes were. And now it was lost.
Riddle just stared at him for a moment, his intense gaze boring into Harry, but he had nothing to add. Eventually the future Dark Lord stood up and paced restlessly, as if he couldn't decide what to do next, but eventually he stopped and leaned against the windowsill.
"I forbid you to seek out any information about the Horcruxes on your own," he said finally. "And if you ever come across any information about them again, you are to inform me immediately. That's an order, do you understand?"
Harry seethed in silence, furious at his own stupidity.
"Potter, I asked you a question," Riddle's voice sharpened like a well-honed blade.
Harry forced himself to nod.
"Reply in words."
"Yes, I understood," he snapped.
"Drop that attitude. I'm not finished with you yet," Riddle warned him, crossing his arms over his chest. "Since we're talking about them, I think you should tell me everything you know about them," he added, and Harry's heart sank.
No, not that. The bitter truth was that he knew almost nothing about them. Except that they were crucial, important enough for Dumbledore to task him with retrieving a memory from Slughorn, but not revealing anything beyond what Harry needed to complete the mission.
However, he wouldn't admit this to Riddle. The older boy seemed convinced that Harry knew what Horcruxes were, and Harry silently hoped that Riddle might reveal something to help him unravel the mystery.
Harry remained stubbornly silent.
"I'm waiting."
Silence stretched between them.
Riddle sighed. "Do I really have to force every answer out of you today, Potter?"
Harry couldn't bring himself to respond. He felt utterly pathetic. And along with his self-directed anger, he began to feel resentment towards Dumbledore. Why did the headmaster always have to be so secretive, so miserly with information?
"You asked for it," Riddle sighed, ostentatiously drawing his wand and raising it slowly. Harry's heart leapt, his pulse quickened, his muscles tensed. But Riddle didn't invade his mind, offering one last chance for a voluntary answer.
And Harry, loathing himself, complied.
"Only that it was something you once asked Slughorn, and he was too ashamed of the answer he gave you, so he modified his memory to prevent Dumbledore from finding out what you'd learned thanks to him," he said quietly, very quietly, averting his gaze from Riddle.
Suddenly, the room filled with laughter — hearty, genuine laughter of a man who couldn't contain himself. A laugh that blended amusement with relief. It took Harry a moment to realize it was coming from Riddle.
"Only that," the future Dark Lord repeated once he had calmed down a little, shaking his head in disbelief. "Just that. And you're still blindly loyal to that old fart."
Harry's hands clenched into fists.
"That's what loyalty is about," he hissed, unable to contain himself. His cheeks burned with anger and humiliation.
Riddle waved his hand dismissively.
"He's really not worth it," he said. Harry glanced in his direction. Riddle's entire demeanour had shifted, the tension and anger replaced by obvious relaxation.
So the Horcruxes were truly significant. And his carelessness had cost him his only two chances of uncovering their nature.
Riddle placed his palms casually on the windowsill, his trademark arrogant smile beginning to play across his lips.
When it was clear that Harry wouldn't comment, he said, "My previous orders still stand. But I think I have something to satisfy your penchant for poking your nose into things you shouldn't."
Harry moved nervously. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like Riddle's next words. He looked at the older boy questioningly.
"I would like you to take the O.W.L. in June, and of course to pass it, as is fitting for my little brother," Riddle announced matter-of-factly.
For a moment, Harry thought he'd misheard. "What? That's... that's absurd!" he sputtered, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Riddle raised an eyebrow. "Is it? If you want to find your place in this time, you'll need proper qualifications. It's the bare minimum for any respectable wizard. Especially if you're going to keep introducing yourself as my younger brother and using my last name."
"But I have no intention of staying here!" Harry protested, his voice rising. "I don't intend to do any of those three things. I don't want to stay in your time, I don't want to pretend to be your younger brother, and I don't want to introduce myself as Harry Riddle. You know that perfectly well!"
Riddle uncrossed his arms and placed his palms casually on the windowsill, his trademark arrogant smile again flickering across his lips.
"And here I was thinking that we’ve got it over with."
"And I thought you promised me that you'd help me get back to my time," Harry angrily said, clutching his hands unknowingly on the duvet.
"And I will," Riddle assured him smoothly, "eventually. But while you're here, you need a proper backstory. But more importantly," his voice dropped, taking on a more serious tone, "the exams, while important in themselves, are also a smokescreen for your true task."
Harry didn't dare ask what the task would be — he knew he'd find out whether he wanted to or not.
Riddle's eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "While you're at Hogwarts, you're going to break into the headmaster's office and steal the Sword of Gryffindor for me."
The words hit Harry like a physical blow. He stared at Riddle, mouth agape, unable to process what he'd just heard. "You... you can't be serious," he finally managed to choke out.
"Oh, I assure you, I'm entirely serious," Riddle replied, his tone cold and unyielding.
"That's... that's impossible!" Harry spluttered, his mind reeling. "Even if I wanted to — which I don't — how am I supposed to break into the headmaster’s office? And why would you even want the sword?"
Riddle's eyes narrowed dangerously. "The how is your problem to solve, Potter. Though if you need my help, I'm here to assist. As for the why... that's none of your concern."
Harry's shock gave way to fury. He straightened up, pulling away from the headrest, ignoring the pain that shot through every muscle in his body. "I won't do it," he declared, his voice trembling with rage. "I'm not going to steal anything for you, Riddle. Especially nothing that belongs to Gryffindor!"
"I'm afraid you don't have a choice in this matter, Potter," Riddle's lips curved into a cold, mirthless smile. "You swore the oath of obedience to me, remember? This is an order, Potter. One you cannot refuse. Unless, of course, you want to lose your magic."
Harry remained silent. What could he have replied to this?
The only option left was to make a deliberate failed attempt. And hope that someone would catch him in the process and help him return to his time. Viewed that way, Riddle's request wasn't entirely terrible.
"Of course, you should immediately dismiss any notion of using this to contact Dumbledore and return to your time. If I catch you doing that, you can bid farewell to your magic. And rest assured, I will catch you, because, in case it slipped your notice, I have my people at Hogwarts," Riddle added, as if he had read Harry's mind.
"Then why don't you order them to do it?"
"Because, unfortunately, there is a grain of truth in what Dumbledore once told you: only a true Gryffindor can draw the Gryffindor Sword from the Sorting Hat. And should you lack the motivation to avoid making a half-hearted attempt, I have an additional incentive for you: the life debt you owe me."
Harry felt as if the bed he was lying on had disappeared and as the floor had dropped out from under him. "Life debt?" he repeated weakly. "What are you talking about?"
A cruel smile twisted Riddle's features. "Oh, did I forget to mention? When I saved your pathetic life after your little mishap with the curse, it created a life debt. Surely you know what that means?"
"You're lying," Harry shouted, his voice filled with conviction. It couldn't be true.
Riddle shrugged.
"Whether you believe me or not is up to you. Just think: if you go back to your time before you've paid him, you'll still owe me — or rather, my future self. You won't be able to fight him, Potter. You'll be powerless against Lord Voldemort. And if you try anyway..." His eyes glittered dangerously. "Well, let's just say the consequences would be most unpleasant for you. Probably fatal, in fact."
Harry felt the blood drain from his face as the implications sank in. The room seemed to spin around him. This couldn't be happening. This had to be a nightmare. "No," he whispered, shaking his head in denial. "You're lying."
Riddle's expression was one of mock sympathy. "I'm afraid not, Potter. Magic this ancient and primal isn't something either of us can control. You owe me, and your disbelief doesn't change that fact."
Harry's mind raced, desperately searching for a solution. If this was true... "If... if I bring you the sword," he said slowly, hating every word, "would that be enough to repay the debt?"
Riddle hesitated and when he spoke, his voice uncharacteristically soft and uncertain. "Perhaps. I won't lie to you, as I said, this isn't magic we can fully control or predict. It may be enough, it may not."
Harry felt a glimmer of hope, quickly followed by crushing despair. He was trapped. He had no choice but to do as Riddle commanded, to become a thief and betray everything he stood for. But if he was going to be forced into this, he was determined to extract something from it.
And that was only because there was a chance Riddle's words might be true, even if he wasn't entirely certain. And since he wasn't, Harry figured it couldn't hurt to try and gain something for himself from the situation.
Something that would help him defeat Voldemort in the future.
Taking a deep breath, Harry met Riddle's gaze. He felt even worse than when he had proposed learning dark magic in exchange for duelling lessons. "I have a proposition," he said, his voice steadier than he felt, although his burning cheeks betrayed his true feelings. "If I bring you the sword, and it turns out that's not enough to repay the debt... you'll tell me what Horcruxes are."
Riddle stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable. The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
"I won't be able to tell anyone what I find out anyway. You've taken care of that," Harry reminded him, thinking of the Thought Wardening Curse.
"So why are you so keen to find out what they are?"
"To know," Harry replied simply, turning his head to look Riddle straight in the eyes. Negotiating while staying in bed wasn't a good idea, but he didn't have the strength to get up.
Riddle crossed his arms, his handsome face betraying nothing, but Harry knew that meant he was considering his proposal. Finally, the future Dark Lord nodded.
"So be it. If the return of Gryffindor's sword is not enough to repay the life debt, as a reward I will answer your three questions about the Horcruxes. But only three."
Harry didn't feel the expected relief; on the contrary, the weight of what he had just committed himself to seemed to crush him. But at least he would have a starting point. Better that than nothing.
"Does that mean we have a deal?" asked Harry, hating how often he asked the older boy that question.
Riddle inclined his head. "Yes, we do." And then, completely unexpectedly, the wand reappeared in his hand. "Now that we've covered the most important points, there's just one left." Riddle lazily pointed his wand at Harry. "The issue of your disobedience, risking your life and trying to hide the diary from me. For that…"
Harry froze. Riddle wasn't going to do that, was —
"Crucio."